Warrior's Bride (31 page)

  Grange paused, a dark look of displeasure cutting across his face. "You don't stand a chance against me."

  "What do you plan to do with us?"

  "That, my dear, depends entirely upon whether or not we can come to some kind of agreement."

  "What kind of agreement?"

  "I want something from you." His dark eyes narrowed. "You give it to me and then we will discuss the rest."

  "I have nothing of importance." What kind of game was he playing at now?

  "There you are wrong." He stretched out his hand, long and dark and as threatening as the rest of him. "Give me your half of the Seer's Stone."

  "I have no such thing."

  "Aye." His bottomless black eyes became darker. "You do." In his other hand, he held up a small white stone bound in a clasp and strung from a leather cord. It was the necklace her mother had given her so many years ago. "You recognize this?"

  Her hands inched up toward her chest where the necklace used to reside. "How did you get that?"

  His gaze shot to Fiona. "Fiona has been a useful spy and thief." He returned his gaze to Isobel. "Now I want the other half. I'm sure once I have you, your husband will give it to me."

  "Why would you need both?" she stalled. She had to think of some way to escape. She would never allow him to use her as bait to trap her husband.

  "I want the Stones reunited. Only then will the house of Balliol rule Scotland once more."

  "You are not a Balliol." She tightened trembling fingers around the stick.

  A terrifying grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. "But I married one, which gives me certain rights and privileges. If I possess both halves of the Stone, I can control events that will guarantee my succession to the throne. Now, come here."

  The stick stood as the only barrier between them— one pointed stick between reason and the insane. Her mother had always claimed he was mad. Isobel had always hoped that assessment was more a fabrication of her mother's own insanity, but she saw clearly now it was not

  As he crept closer, a flash of steel glittered from beneath the folds of his tunic. Isobel stared into his bottomless dark eyes. No reason reflected there, only a twisted obsession haunted his gaze.

  He lunged forward, sending the knife slashing toward Isobel's face. She brought up the stick to block his arm, then spun to the side, narrowly escaping the attack. He turned and came at her again, but this time Fiona launched herself at him. A howl of displeasure echoed in the trees as he flung up his arms to protect his face from the threat of clawing nails. Instead of deflecting the attack, as Isobel expected, his fist slammed into Fiona's temple. The blow snapped her head to one side with enough force to send her sprawling backward onto the ground.

  She lay silent against the dark earth.

  He crept closer, his knife extended, searching for an opening to strike. If she were going to do it, it must be done now. Her grasp tightened on her stick and she drew a shaky breath. An instant later her feet flew over the thickly padded forest floor. She avoided fallen trees and overgrown roots that grasped at her ankles and shredded the hem of her gown as she raced past.

  Slashes of sunlight filtered through the branches above, guiding her way. Even so, footsteps pounded behind her, growing closer with each frantic beat of her heart Isobel prayed for more speed. Fear scalded the back of her throat, and the wind brought tears to her eyes.

  She had to outrun him. The land dipped and twisted as she surged forward, tearing through the dense ferns and saplings and scattering any number of sleeping creatures from beneath the dense underbrush. She headed northward. There was a path there; Wolf had shown it to her the other day.

  No matter what direction she tried, angry footsteps echoed behind her, gaining speed. Her feet plunged into the brook, sending a spray of water up her legs and weighing down the hem of her skirt. Isobel tossed her stick aside and grasped handfuls of heavy, water-soaked fabric, determined to pick up her speed despite the slippery creek bed.

  She leapt up the small embankment, anticipating the secure feel of solid ground beneath her feet, only to find herself jerked backward cruelly, into her father's chest.

  She twisted in his arms, trying to break free. Her hair obscured her vision, but she could imagine his dark features leering down at her. "Let me go."

  His only response was a low, chilling laugh.

  Isobel screamed.

Chapter Twenty-seven

  "Isobel!"

  The roar of Wolf’s voice died away. His entire body ached with fatigue and tension, every muscle afire as he sprang from his horse and bolted toward the keep. The night's storm had passed, leaving the bailey damp and boggy. But instead of the fresh newness one might expect the breeze to carry after a storm, a desperate chill hung in the air.

  With more force than necessary, Wolf threw open the massive door to the keep, startling those inside as it reverberated off the stone wall behind it The warriors he'd left behind sat at benches in the chamber, their faces grim.

  Mistress Rowley and several other servants bent over a pallet set by the hearth. Wolf could not see who lay there, but the blood-soaked cloth near the bedside told him all he needed to know. Wolf looked to his men. "Who attacked?"

  Hiram stood, pushing away from the table to join his master. "The king's own men."

  Wolf fought to stay calm as his thoughts flicked back to Grange's empty encampment. Another trap. They had drawn him away from his own people, leaving them vulnerable to attack. "How many are injured or dead?"

  "Only one injury, my lord Wolf." Hiram's gaze dropped to the floor.

  Wolf’s heart stopped. "Isobel."

  "Nay, 'tis Walter."

  "Where is Isobel?"

  Regret twisted Hiram's scarred face. "No one knows. She forced us all to lock ourselves in the keep. The last we saw of her, she walked out of here with a crossbow in her hands."

  "And no one went after her?" Wolf clenched his hands into fists, fighting the trembling that threatened.

  "Walter followed on her heels. We all assumed he would stop her. Then when we heard a howl coming from outside, we immediately went to arms." Hiram stared down at his hands, folding and unfolding them as he spoke. "By the time we made our way to the bailey, the king's men were gone, as was the Lady Isobel."

  "Where is Walter?" Wolf asked.

  Hiram pointed to the pallet by the hearth. "He lives, but he was badly injured by a crossbow bolt that narrowly missed his heart."

  If Walter had been injured, did that mean that he'd failed in his attempt to kill Isobel? Wolf strode to Walter's side. He drew his dagger with a trembling hand as he bent down beside his straw pallet and pressed the tip of the weapon against the curve of Walter's chin. "Traitor."

  Walter's gaze remained fixed off in the distance. "One who deserves to die," he replied, his misery obvious.

  "You don't deny that you betrayed me."

  "Father threatened your life if I did not kill her. I had no choice."

  "Everyone has a choice, Walter. Sometimes you just have to look for the options." Wolf sheathed his weapon as his anger diffused.

  "I couldn't let him kill you after all you have done for me."

  "Our father is not all powerful. He is just a man," Wolf ground out.

  "He's a king." Walter's jaw clenched through a shudder of pain.

  "Aye, but that doesn't make him God."

  Walter swallowed with difficulty as his fingers crept up to the blood-soaked bandage that covered his chest. "Nay. God is more merciful," he said softly. A plea for forgiveness lingered in his eyes. "I could not shoot her."

  "Where is she?"

  Walter shrugged, then gasped in pain at the movement. "I located her in the bailey before the others attacked. She opened the portcullis and just stood there in front of the gates as if she were waiting for something."

  Or someone.

  A chill rippled across Wolf’s flesh. Had Isobel betrayed him as well? Was she working for his father? How could that be, if the man had gone to so much effort to ensure Walter's cooperation in killing the girl? Even so, suspicion roared through him. Why would she leave the gates open? Why would she just wait there, alone?

  Wolf shoved a hand through his hair, hoping to bring clarity to his thoughts. But only more questions lingered. The attacks had been on her life. Or were they? Perhaps they truly had been directed at him the whole time, and not her, as he'd assumed. Had she willingly poisoned herself to throw him off her trail? Why would she do that?

  A wave of raw emotion crashed over him, and he closed his eyes against it, searching his memory for facts, for things she might have said or done that would confirm his suspicions.

  In his mind's eye he saw Isobel in the crofter's cottage when they'd first met, looking desolate, alone, and in need of a champion. He pictured her sitting at the edge of the pond, her feet tucked primly beneath the hem of her gown. When her gaze had touched him that day it had been filled with tenderness and a sincere desire to help him. And he knew in his heart that what he'd seen there had been the truth and not some act.

  And when they'd made love for the first time.... Wolf opened his eyes and met Walter's remorseful gaze. He knew with each trembling touch of her hands upon his flesh that she cared for him—and a part of him had come back to life that day. A part of him that he'd thought his father had crushed out of him long ago. He'd trusted her then, and he trusted her now.

  "There had to be a reason she left the gates open." Wolf narrowed his gaze on his brother. There had to be another explanation. "I need to ask you something else and I shall tolerate nothing but the truth."

  Walter nodded.

  "Did you at any time try to harm Isobel or myself?"

  "My only attempt was in the bailey." His words rang with sincerity. "Although I knew of my mission since the moment we arrived on St. Kilda. Why do you think I have been so angry since our return here? I knew I would have to separate you from what you'd come to care about—all for the sake of our father."

  "Did he tell you why he wanted her dead?"

  Walter shook his head. "I never asked. I thought it was just one more way for him to control our lives."

  "He controls me no longer."

  Walter's eyes widened. "What have you done?" He struggled to sit up, but a fit of coughing forced him back against the pallet, gasping for breath.

  "I made a choice. One that might well cost me my life." Wolf stood, anxious to find his wife and learn the truth from her own lips. "I need to find Isobel."

  Walter struggled to sit up once more. "You—" Spasms of coughing wracked his body. He cried out in agony as he collapsed against his makeshift bed.

  Wolf snatched up the neatly folded tartan and black leather tunic that lay near Walter's side and quickly put them on. "Rest. You'll need it. For I still haven't decided what is to be your fate." Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the great hall and into the courtyard. He had to find Isobel; nothing else mattered more than that.

  Walter had last seen her out in the bailey. It seemed as good a place as any to begin his search.

  "Isobel."

  He strode through the inner bailey until he found himself standing before the hen yard. "Isobel," he called again, listening for a reply, but there was only the furious squawking of the chickens as they pecked the ground in search of food. Mistress Henny stopped her grazing to peer up at him ever so briefly before settling back into her newfound routine.

  Isobel had adapted to her routine at the castle as well. She'd taken up the challenge of preparing the meals each day, as well as ensuring that they had ample supplies of food and cloth in the storerooms. She had even taken up the drying of herbs from the garden to mix into medicines so that his kinsmen would have only the best care if the need arose. She had been given no choice in their marriage, but she'd done everything a wife should do. If she were only here as a spy, would she have done those things?

  There was no denying that she had deceived him. But would the knowledge that she was a Balliol have stopped him from touching her that very first time on the isle? He had taken one look into those bottomless eyes of hers and imagined seeing a plea there ... a plea to be taken, to be held, to be loved.

  And yet something his father had said lingered at the edge of Wolf’s thoughts. The man had hinted that there was more about Isobel he did not know, something his father had not revealed.

  Wolf shook off the thought with disgust. His father could not be trusted. Nay, he had to keep his faith in Isobel. With a purposeful stride, he left the hen yard, heading for the outer bailey.

  "Isobel?"

  The slight morning breeze snatched his voice and carried it across the open space as he strode to the outer bailey, where Walter had seen her last. He walked the length of the bailey before he paused near the large castle gate. Where could she be?